


measure a year

by noplacespecial



Category: The Unusuals
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noplacespecial/pseuds/noplacespecial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They get older.  They don't necessarily get wiser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	measure a year

**Author's Note:**

> Written for PornBattleXIV (I think?). Prompts were _partners, diner, cooking, countertop, baseball, flirt, food_. And yes, there's an X-Files callback. I couldn't resist.

Beaumont's birthday does not go as planned. Walsh can't say he's surprised.

It's not that he doesn't love her, because he does. But he's quickly come to realize, since actually dating her, that Detective Beaumont at the precinct and Allison Beaumont in his bed are two completely different people. And it's not that he didn't realize that, either - they all put on somewhat of a front on the job, a bravado. But Allison is just not what he ever would have expected. She's kind of a mess, insecure and emotional. In a way, he's impressed how she manages to shove it all aside to do what she does every day, because she still is and always will be an incredible cop. But the rest of it, the side she hides that she now unleashes full-tilt when they're together...maybe he's just not ready for it. He doesn't know if that makes him a terrible, selfish person or not, but there it is.

They've been arguing for weeks, over what he considers to be particularly stupid things. But he's a guy, maybe he's just being insensitive. Honestly, he really doesn't know. He does know that he's complete shit at relationships, so he kind of expects the friction, and he learns to just apologize, whether he knows what's wrong or not. He doesn't have any plans to break up with her, or anything like that, so it just ends up making him feel a little...stuck.

It turns out not to matter what he wants, because minor squabbles turn into a giant blowout right before the party the squad is throwing for her at the Apolo. They take separate cars, they get smashed, and they both go home alone. Walsh apologizes, repeatedly, but it's not enough this time, because he can't go any deeper. He doesn't know what to say beyond the hollow apologies, and he feels like Allison's anger at that is pretty justified.

He doesn't even remember what they were fighting about, but Allison makes it clear that it's over. Walsh honestly doesn't know how he feels about it, but he does know that he watches Detective Beaumont knock over a 200-pound bodybuilder and curse vibrantly as she slams his face into the pavement, and he still gets that familiar twinge in his gut. He ignores it, because it's what he's good at.

~*~

On Walsh's birthday, Casey organizes a picnic in the park next to his favorite batting cages. He protests, but she declares that he has been "too fucking depressed, already. I know you miss Beaumont, but you've got to stop making that kicked puppy face or I'm actually going to kick it." And he learns early on in their partnership that when Casey Shraeger is on a mission, you don't argue, you just sit back and watch.

He can't say he dislikes the end result. The sun is high in sky and there's beer and hot dogs. Casey calls in every favor she has (which she will no doubt be reminding him of for the next century) so that the entire squad has the day off, and it's totally worth it just to watch Banks and Delahoy get into an eating competition, and Cole and Alvarez try to be casual in t-shirts and jeans.

Walsh slams two dozen balls into the sky with his friends cheering him on, and when he's finished there's an open bottle of Heineken handed to him. He's slightly sunburnt and slightly drunk and then finds out there's chocolate cake from the little bakery by the precinct that he loves. He shovels down three pieces before seeking out Casey.

"Okay, you're officially allowed to complain about all the favors you had to pull in. I don't care. This was totally worth it." Casey's hair is swept up in a messy ponytail, and her tank top might not have been the best choice, because if he's slightly burnt she's going to be a lobster by tonight. But she's fresh-faced and grinning, looking ten years younger than usual (which is already pretty young looking for her age), and it kind of makes Walsh feel exhausted.

"I'm glad you're having fun," she says sincerely. "I just thought, you know...you could use something for you."

"I promise to stop giving you kicked puppy face," Walsh swears. Casey laughs.

"All I'm asking for." He stares at her for a minute, sweat mixing with bottle condensation as she takes a swig of her beer. He watches one bead roll down her collarbone, and she punches him. "God, seriously?" she complains, tugging at the straps of her top. Walsh grins.

"It's my birthday. I'm allowed to stare at your yabbos on my birthday." Her eye roll is pretty epic, and she's never going to be Kowalski. But he supposes there are worse people he could be partnered with. "Come on," he says, slinging an arm around her hips and dragging her over to the batting cages.

"Oh, no. Walsh, *no*. I am the least sporty person you will ever meet. Me and baseball? We don't get along."

"Relax," Walsh commands, handing her a helmet. She glares daggers at him.

"I want you to know that this is *only* because it's your birthday," she informs him primly, but she grasps the bat firm and lets him wrestle her into place and show her how to swing.

"Hips before hands," he instructs, guiding her movements. They miss the first ball when he catches Beaumont watching them, expressionless. Walsh blinks, but turns his attention back to the bat and ball. It's his birthday, and he's having fun with his partner. Everything else can just wait until tomorrow. "Okay, let's try it again," he says, readying Casey's fingers on the bat. 

"I want you to know that I really hate you," she responds, shouting to be heard over the commotion of the cages. Walsh just laughs.

They knock it out of the park.

~*~

Banks' birthday is probably the biggest blowout any of them has ever seen. (Delahoy arranges the whole thing, which explains the cage dancers.) Banks spends the first half of the evening alternately blushing and punching Delahoy. But sometime between the fourth shot and the fifteenth, something deflates, and he actually starts enjoying himself. He pops all of the number 34 balloons and drunkenly serenades them onstage, tripping over the actual band's electrical cords on his way off. Delahoy just grins and picks him up off the floor, handing him a glass of water and a bag of ice.

Things between Walsh and Beaumont have cooled off enough that they've managed to transition most of the way into being friends. It's both refreshing and sad, and he still hasn't figured out how to stop thinking about her at odd times, wondering how she would react to things he sees and hears. But he figures that's probably a good sign overall, a sign that she actually meant something to him. That despite all their flaws they actually managed to have a decent relationship for awhile there. It's something of a personal achievement for him.

Everyone gets hammered that night, which is the only explanation for the dancing. Well, what qualifies as dancing only in that it's movement set to music, because Delahoy and Alvarez's spazzing out is...not dancing. To be kind. Walsh himself just kind of shuffles from side-to-side, embracing his own lack of rhythm. It's Banks that surprises them all - when the guy cuts loose, he really cuts loose, and apparently he's been hiding some serious moves. He has a confidence and fluidity that Walsh can't help but envy, but mostly it's the smile on his face that gets him. It's more open and carefree than he's ever seen Banks, and he's really really happy for him. Banks is a good guy. He deserves to be cut a break.

There's also the portion of the evening during which Casey and Nicole grind up against one another like they're back in high school. It doesn't last long, as they're back to catty name-calling a few minutes later, but it is glorious while it lasts. Walsh wishes any of them were sober enough to actually document it for posterity.

Allison approaches him as people start filing out, and they share a beer and dance a few songs in silence. And then, because this is how Jason Walsh's luck goes, a slow some comes on. He must make a face, before Allison sighs at him.

"Oh for god's sake, Jason, I don't have cooties." And with that, she slips her slim arms around his neck and presses up against him. Walsh falters for a minute, before finally wrapping his arms around her. They're hugging more than dancing, really, and his mouth is right by her temple, so that she can't miss it when he blurts out:

"I miss you." Allison sighs and tightens her arms around his neck.

"Me too," she murmurs into his ear. Then, just as the song is ending:

"I think this is really over." Walsh feels his heart clench, even as he acknowledges that she's right.

"Yeah," he chokes out. The music is over, but they're still clinging to each other in the center of the dance floor, and when Allison presses her face into his neck he can feel the wetness of her tears.

~*~

Delahoy doesn't make it to his birthday.

It catches all of them by surprise except for Banks, who figured it out months ago. The funeral is small, attended by a few family members who are far outnumbered by cops from the precinct. Everyone shows up in uniform, and everyone hates every moment of it, but it's about respect. Delahoy was one of them. More than that, he was part of the family. 

Banks chokes up halfway through the eulogy, and Sarge takes over. They've all got things to share, but those are stories saved for drinks at the Apolo. Stupid and inappropriate stories that hold new weight now that their star is not there to boast or protest. Casey talks about the time they got lost in Spanish Harlem because Delahoy refused to ask for directions, and a group of teen gangbangers unknowingly tried to mug them. When she finishes, she returns to her beer and while she casually sips, her hand finds Walsh's. Her death grip is surprisingly strong, but he doesn't complain, just squeezes. He gives her a ride back to the station where she left her car, and instead of reaching for the door handle, she just sits there for a minute. Finally, she launches herself at him, hugging him hard. Walsh strokes a palm along her back.

"Woah, easy," he says. Her grip relaxes, and when she pulls back she's got mascara smeared under her eyes and her nose is running.

"Sorry," she says. "Sorry."

"Don't be," he counters.

"I've lost cops before, just...no one that I was actually close to, you know? It was always someone in another squad, someone I didn't really know." Her eyes light on his, remembering the entire reason she's at the 2nd Precinct. "How many for you?" she asks. Walsh shrugs.

"Three now. There was Kowalski, obviously. And back in the day I worked Robbery for awhile. Guy I was friends with took a hit during a bank heist." Casey studies him, in that way that kind of freaks him out, and he shoves gently at her shoulder. "Go home, get some sleep. I can't have you all crazy and emotional tomorrow." A hint of a smile passes across her lips, and she gets out of the car. But she turns back around before she gets very far, knocking on the window. Walsh rolls it down for her.

"Same for you," she says, stone-faced and serious. Walsh nods.

"Promise."

He is fairly well-rested when he enters the precinct the next morning, and feeling okay until he spots Banks staring at Delahoy's empty chair. Somehow it's worse than the entire funeral.

~*~

Alvarez invites absolutely *everyone* to his birthday, from the Sarge down to the desk jockeys that don't really know him beyond the stationhouse rumors and gossip - so god knows what they must think. Walsh has no intention of showing up, lest Alvarez start to latch onto the idea of them as friends again. But a few days beforehand, he suddenly gets this picture of him as the sad little kid sitting in front of an uneaten cake because no one showed up at his party. In fact, he'd almost bet on it that it has happened before. So, on his Saturday off, he finds himself pulling up to a steakhouse downtown with a sloppily-wrapped bottle of cologne - the most generic gift he could think of - sitting on the passenger's seat next to him.

Walsh doesn't know if everyone else had the same idea as him, or if Alvarez simply invited so many people that even a small turnout yielded a whole hell of a lot of people, or - dear lord - if he actually has this many friends that none of them ever realized, but the place is jam-packed. He sees a lot of faces he recognizes, and plenty that he doesn't. Crowded into a corner are a sour-faced Casey, Allison, and Banks. Walsh tosses the cologne onto the gift table and squeezes in next to Casey.

"Hey, gang's all here," he says dryly. He doesn't mean to, but the joke suddenly hits a sour note, and all eyes turn to him. They all do it - say things, do things, then remember that one of them is missing, the loss still bitter and new. Walsh clears his throat. "Where's Cole?" he asks. Beaumont roles her eyes.

"Making nice with Alvarez's mother," she says.

"Of *course* he is," Walsh mutters. Banks shakes his head.

"I'm almost afraid to go over there. I mean if that's how Alvarez turned out, can you imagine what the people who created him must be like?"

"Not everyone takes after their parents," Casey says sharply. Walsh knocks his shoulder against hers and pushes the beer in front of her into her hands.

"Relax," he commands.

"Shut up," Beaumont counters. "I'm with her." She reaches across the table and clinks the neck of her bottle against Casey's, and they drink in tandem. Walsh tries to ignore how uncomfortable this makes him feel. "Where do I get one of those?" he asks.

"Bar's over there." He abandons his post and goes in search of a beer. Or five. He studiously avoids Alvarez - his mere presence is enough, thankyouverymuch, he is not getting into touchy-feely shit, even if it is the guy's birthday. Besides, he's still sour about that whole prank war that ended with Eddie Alvarez in his bed. Joke or not, it is a distinctly unpleasant memory that he wishes he had a way to physically scrub from his brain with bleach. But alcohol will help with that. Alcohol always helps.

As he wanders, Walsh takes in the whole shebang. It's not just a steakhouse (no, because that would be far too easy). It's Asian themed, and giant, and just in trying to locate the bar Walsh spies a hibachi with some pretty over-the-top knife-juggling going on, a koi pond, and a karaoke stage. The thought of anyone he works with attempting karaoke has him doubling his order, and he returns to the table with four beers clenched in his hands.

"Is this place for real?" he asks rhetorically, after swatting away everyone else's greedy hands. If they want more booze they can find their own.

"Wait until you see the fire-breathers," Banks says. Walsh's eyes bug out.

"There's no way that can possibly safe." Banks flinches, still a little gun-shy at an open-flames-and-alcohol level of danger even though he's given up the vest and the safety padding. Little traces remain, small things, but since Delahoy Walsh has begun noticing a few more creep back in, like the obsessive hand sanitizing. He doesn't really mean to call attention to it, he's just making a comment in passing, but he doesn't get a chance to revise his statement because suddenly Alvarez has a microphone in his hand.

"This cannot possibly be good," Casey murmurs beside him. Walsh chuckles.

"Ten bucks says he toasts himself."

"You're on."

He wins the bet easily; not only does Alvarez toast to himself, but Nicole gives a sappy speech that ends with them awkwardly making out, heatedly, in front of everyone.

"My eyes," Walsh complains. Casey snorts into her beer.

After that, there's food. For all he wants to ridicule this entire ordeal and question his decision to come, Walsh has to admit that the food makes it all worthwhile. It's a giant buffet stuffed with everything from sushi to hamburgers. He'll admit that he's not the greatest cook, despite the fact that he owns a restaurant, but he prides himself in having a varied palate; a kind rephrasing of the way his mother used to call him a human garbage disposal. He likes and eats all kinds of food, and here is no exception. The others stick to tamer fare, but he relishes in choosing things he cannot even identify on sight. Beaumont dares him to eat a fish eyeball, and he takes her up on it. He immediately regrets this decision, but refuses to let it show.

There's a lot of moving around, between food, drinks, and dessert. They all lose track of each other, and people keep stealing their table. Eventually they kind of give up trying. He chats with Banks for awhile, in the way and getting shoved and elbowed seemingly no matter where they stand. He watches a shouting host feed a tank of live piranhas with Cole, and seriously what _is_ this place? He finds Casey in the crowd - or, rather, she finds him when he feels someone grasp his wrist and looks down to see her slim hands clamped around him.

"Alvarez just tried to hug me," she hisses through clenched teeth. He tries to look sympathetic, he really does, but all that he succeeds in doing is cracking up. Casey glares but keeps hold of him. "Come on, I need more alcohol," she says, dragging him behind her. Walsh doesn't mind. He's on his seventh beer - he thinks - and is feeling pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. On their way to the bar, Casey stops short. Walsh runs up into her back and stumbles for a second as he rights himself before investigating what's holding her attention.

Banks and the Sarge are on the stage in the karaoke room, clutching one another and attempting to harmonize "Islands in the Stream."

"This is not happening," Walsh mutters. Casey snags a bottle of something from the bar and ducks into the first door she can find, which leads them out into the alley behind the restaurant. Before he can argue, she twists the cap off of the green bottle in her hands and takes a swig. She lowers it with a disgusted look on her face.

"Next time I steal alcohol, remind me to check the label first," she complains. Walsh takes it from her and tastes, a little more cautiously. It's pungent and a little bitter, and stings as it goes down.

"Damn." It's not *too* terrible, however. He takes another sip.

"I need something to mix it with," Casey says. 

"I'll go see if I can find some juice or something." He tries to open the door to venture back inside, only to be met with resistance. He tugs again. "Fuck."

"We're locked out?" There's a frantic note in Casey's voice.

"What, were you that desperate to get back to Alvarez's party?" 

"Maybe I wanted to see the fire-breathers," she counters, but follows him out of the alleyway when he turns left, away from the entrance. Walsh tucks the bottle of alcohol - he's still not sure what it is, the label is in Korean - under his coat.

"How wrong is this that I'm a cop, walking around trying to conceal an open container of alcohol?" he asks. Casey shrugs.

"Eh. Regular Saturday night," she jokes nonchalantly. Walsh chuckles.

"I dunno Shraeger, I feel like this is about as wild child as you get." She glares at him.

"I won't recount any particular stories, on the grounds of incriminating myself, but I'll have you know that I was plenty of wild child in college."

"Staying up past your bedtime to read doesn't count as rebellion."

"Fuck you."

There's a drugstore on the corner. Walsh makes Casey go in alone to buy a carton of orange juice and some cups. She argues that loitering outside isn't exactly making him look less suspicious, but he ignores her. She gets an extra bag so that they can safely carry their stolen booze to a small park a few blocks down, the good old-fashioned kind with a huge playground. There's a big round tube, meant for children to crawl through, and they climb inside and set the bottle between them. Walsh mixes equal parts alcohol and juice into two plastic cups while Casey watches him thoughtfully.

"My best friend had a fake ID when we were 19," she says. "We went to the state fair, and she bought us wine coolers. We walked around drinking them out in the open." Walsh cocks his eyebrow in confusion. "That's the wildest thing I've ever done," she clarifies dejectedly. He smiles fondly and passes her a cup.

"Cheers to that."

There's no glass to clink, more like a slight click of plastic against plastic and the slosh of liquid, but the sound echoes throughout the plastic playground tunnel. Casey smiles at him, and he's probably just drunk, but that seems to echo too.

~*~

Cole's birthday is a small dinner party at his townhouse. They squeeze into the small space and Amy distributes drinks. The decor is homey, the food is freshly baked, and Cole and Amy are still lost in newlywed bliss, cuddling and holding hands throughout the entire evening.

"I think I'm gonna barf," Casey says.

"My birthday was way better," Walsh agrees. 

She sighs beside him. Walsh's grip tightens on his glass. They don't discuss it any further.

~*~

Casey spends most of her birthday at work. Walsh pays for lunch, which is hot dogs from a street vendor as they canvass a neighborhood in SoHo, but that's about as special as it gets. She swears she doesn't mind, doesn't really care about birthdays, but she's only human. Everyone cares, and Walsh has learned to read between the lines, discern the tired set of her shoulders and the way her smile crooks in the wrong direction. When they're released for the day, she heads directly for the elevator, but Walsh catches her before she can slip through the doors.

"Hold up," he calls down the hallway. She fixes him with a perturbed look, lips pursed in annoyance.

"I gotta go," she says. "Dinner at my parents' house. Being late is basically a mortal sin. I may not live under their roof anymore, but it doesn't stop the lecturing. Nothing stops the lecturing. I have a feeling their epitaph will be in the form of a lecture directed at me."

"I wanted to give you your present." He pulls a small box from his pocket and hands it to her. It's plain and not wrapped, but Casey's eyes widen and start to get a bit wet at the corners.

"You bought me a present?" Walsh scoffs. 

"It's not a big deal."

"I didn't get you a present," she reminds him. He shrugs.

"It's not a big deal," he repeats. Casey is still staring at him with that look of hers that he hates, because it's the one he still hasn't cracked yet. He has no idea what that look means and it drives him crazy. "Would you just open it already?" he snaps. Casey continues staring for a few moments, but finally does pull the lid off the box to find a leprechaun keychain. It's stupid, and it's part of an old inside joke she wasn't even there for, but they all have them. The whole squad. And it's not like she's ever said anything, has in any way indicated that somehow not having some worthless trinket makes her feel like less of a member of the squad, but the fact remained that they had them and she did not. And now she does. Really, it's as simple as that. But this time Casey is actually crying, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks and Walsh physically backs away.

"Fuck, don't do that," he complains. "Or I'm not getting you anything next year." Casey digs her keys out of her purse and slides the little green figurine onto her keyring, looks at it there for a moment, and then steps forward, back into his airspace. She takes another step, so that she's right in front of him, and he only realizes what's happening a split second before she kisses his cheek.

"Thank you," is all she says. He doesn't really need much more than that.

At the diner that night, he plays around with what food he can dig out of the refrigerator to a mixed bag of satisfied and dissatisfied customers. He stays open later than usual, but doesn't let himself dwell on why. It's past 11 by the time he thinks about finally closing up shop. He's just finished cleaning off the grill when the bell chimes, and he looks up to see Casey coming through the door. She's still dressed from dinner with her parents, a dress and heels and makeup and curls spilling over her shoulders. Walsh swallows.

"Hey," he says, as casually as he can muster. Casey grins at him, slow and predatory.

"Hey," she returns. There are six empty stools, but she chooses to hop up onto the counter, pushing her skirt up her thighs, and she spins so that she's facing him.

"Want something to eat?" Casey laughs.

"It's my birthday. You're not allowed to try to kill me on my birthday."

"One of these days you will accept that my cooking is amazing."

"One of these days you'll actually taste what you make and realize why that's never happening." But despite her words, Casey reaches down and snags a few fries off of a leftover plate. They're probably cold and stale, but she groans like they're the best thing she's ever eaten. "Word of advice: never have dinner with rich people. I think they need someone to re-teach them what food actually is. Because what I had tonight? Definitely doesn't qualify."

"We could order something," Walsh suggests. "Even though it seems very wrong to order food to be delivered to a restaurant."

"They've never had your cooking. If they had, they'd understand."

"Enough with my cooking already. It's not my fault your palate is so narrow." Casey snorts. They stare at each other for a few seconds before she finally sighs.

"Oh, just come here already."

Walsh obliges. The counter is tall and there's an oven in the way, so his chin pretty much reaches her knee, but he steps as close as he can get. He takes her calf in one hand and extends her leg, then twists his neck to lick the back of her knee. Casey starts, and almost kicks him.

"I hate you," she complains, even as she's bending down to kiss him. Walsh takes her by the waist and lifts her up and off of the counter to set her feet on the ground. She's just the slightest bit taller than him in the heels, and he kind of likes it. He kisses her firm and thorough as she slides her hands - *cold* hands, he jumps at the touch - beneath his t-shirt. She wrestles it over his head and takes a half-step back to observe.

"Happy birthday to me," she murmurs. Walsh grins and reaches for his belt buckle.

"C'mere, I've got another present for you." Casey groans.

"Terrible," she complains, but when he pulls her against him she goes willingly. He waits for it to get weird, but perhaps the weirdest part is that it doesn't. She's just Casey, who still laughs like a wheezing horse even when she's naked on top of him, and still calls him on his bullshit even when she's tangled in his sheets, slicked with sweat and cum. She steals the covers in the middle of the night and kicks him in the shin when he tries to take them back and Walsh thinks that he could get used to this.


End file.
